


Freedom

by diamondDreamer1



Category: No Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 04:20:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13674147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diamondDreamer1/pseuds/diamondDreamer1
Summary: Hi. You might know me, or you might not. It depends on how observant you are. Let me introduce myself. I'm that kid in the library, sitting alone with a book. I'm that kid who sits in the very back corner of the class, right by the air-conditioning. Remember me now? Yeah, I thought so. Here, sit down, and I'll tell you a story.





	Freedom

Hi. You might know me, or you might not. It depends on how observant you are. Let me introduce myself. I'm that kid in the library, sitting alone with a book. I'm that kid who sits in the very back corner of the class, right by the air-conditioning. Remember me now? Yeah, I thought so. Here, sit down, and I'll tell you a story.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was a girl at my school that nobody actually knew. She was a loner, a ghost, one of those apparitions that you see in the corner of your eye, but when you turned to look, she was gone. The only times that I actually saw her without her vanishing was in English class, where she sat in the very far back corner, by the air conditioning, and in the library, in a lonely corner with a book as her only company. People rarely talked to her; partner and group projects were always done independently for her. The teachers didn't seem to realize or care. Nobody even knew her name, or where she came from, or anything, and she was pretty unremarkable, so everyone just ignored her. There was one thing about her, though, that always caught my attention when I saw her. On the inside of her left wrist (she must have been right-handed), there was one word, written in neat script with black Sharpie: FREEDOM. The word always puzzled me, and I wondered what it meant for her. In an effort to understand, I began to spy on her. (I know, I know. Shut up). When she was in the library, I pretended to browse nearby shelves while discreetly watching her. I sat in the back of English class and studied her out of the corner of my eye. After a week of this, however, I gave up. The only thing that she did in the library was turn the pages of her book, and the only thing she did in class was the assigned work and darkening the word on her wrist with a fat black Sharpie. I quickly became bored and gave up, putting the girl in the back of my mind, for now. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The signs came about a month later. It was about half an hour before the first bell when I saw her again in the library. This time, I was actually browsing the shelves instead of pretending, in search of a book to help with a history project. I saw her out of the corner of my eye as she tucked her hair behind her ear before turning a page in her book, and I immediately froze. There, on the right side of her face, was a large bruise. It was shaped like a hand, and tinged red, so I could tell it was fresh. I stood there, frozen with horror at the implications of that bruise. As if she could read my thoughts, she looked up from her book and her eyes met mine. It felt like we were staring at each other for an eternity, my eyes betraying my horror and confusion, and hers covered by a mist of pain, of suffering and sorrow. Suddenly the bell rang, and I jolted in surprise, severing the eye contact, and glanced at the clock for a millisecond, at most. When I turned back around, the girl was gone. As I walked to class, I remembered the sorrow in her eyes, but I had the strangest feeling that the sorrow wasn't for her. It was for /me/, she somehow only felt sorrow for me having seen it, instead of feeling sorry for herself that it had happened at all. My revelation left me confused all day, and I never stopped thinking about her eyes, so full of sorrow for me, even as I went to sleep that night. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

As time went on, I began to notice more and more about the girl. More bruises, on her arms and on her face and once, a large one by her collarbone to her shoulder and possibly lower that was partially revealed when her shirt shifted one day. I began to notice other things, too. She was bullied, older and more popular girls laughing at her and calling her worthless, ugly, a freak and so on. They made fun of her isolated life, with nobody but books as her friends. They called her fat when they saw her eating ravenously at lunch, like she never had a scrap of food in her life. They called her a slut when they noticed marks on her neck, marks that couldn't fully be concealed by sweaters and long hair. Each day saw more bruises and more taunts, yet the girl seemed to live in a bubble; a bubble of non-caring, a bubble of silence (I had never heard her speak a word), a bubble of loneliness, a bubble that seemed to cling to her like a second skin but was slowly filling up, more and more and deeper and deeper until she looked to be drowning in taunts and marks and loneliness and silence and ignorance, for this bubble went two ways. What I originally saw as a protective bubble, shielding her from taunts and insults, was actually a prison, a barrier, a one-way window where she could see out and see us, hear us, touch us, but nobody could see her. Nobody could hear her. Nobody could feel her sorrowful gaze, looking out at everything and everyone that ignored her presence and her life, silently mourning the world's blindness. But I could. I could see her, and I could feel her gaze, /had/ felt it before, the heavy weight of empathy tugging on my soul, and sometimes I could imagine that I could hear her, whispering in my ear, "Please. Please." I wasn't sure what she was pleading in my mind, but I could hear her nonetheless. And it wasn't until it was too late that I understood just what it was that I could do. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

It was mid-January when it happened. Tuesday, I think. I walked into the library like I had for over a year now, silently keeping the girl company from a few yards away. We never spoke, never actually interacted, but I kept up a silent support from wherever I was. I saw her house, once, back when I had been spying on her. It was an unassuming one-story, painted white with red bricks and dark green roof shingles. That was a long time ago, but I still saw it now and again on my bike ride to and from the store. When I walked into the library that day, I immediately panicked. The girl wasn't there. Now, this may not seem like a big deal to anyone else, but this girl never missed school. NEVER. Not when she had a horrible cold and looked horrible all day, not when she was actually sick in a trashcan in the office (she just drank some water and was present for her next class), not even when she broke her writing arm. Hell, one time she came to school with a twisted ankle and /still/ ran the mile with the rest of the class! So you see, the girl missing school was an extremely Big Deal, capital B capital D. I immediately went to the librarian to see if she had seen her, and she just shook her head no, looking about as concerned as I felt. I discreetly asked around a bit, and when nobody had seen her, I went into a full-blown panic. Just then, the first bell rang, and everyone went off to their classes. I hesitated. The thing was, I had never missed a day of school, either. It wasn't that I was as stubborn as the girl, I just never got sick or anything. So I hesitated for a brief second, then made up my mind. Leaving the school, I grabbed my bike and started pedaling furiously towards her house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I got to her house, I immediately noticed that there was no car in the driveway. Perfect, no parents to ask awkward questions. My mind supplied other reasons, supported with a year's worth of evidence, to explain why no parents was a good thing, but I quickly told it to shut up. Closing my eyes, I took in a deep breath. Releasing it, I opened them again and tried the front door. 

Locked.

So was the back door, but luckily for me the lock on the side door leading to the garage was broken, allowing me to sneak inside and through to the house. 

Once I was inside, I began looking around. The kitchen was surprisingly clean for the adult I had imagined who was hurting the girl. So was the living room. Going into the hallway, I saw four doors, three of which were closed. Opening the first one, I saw a study, with a large desk and papers everywhere. The computer was in sleep mode. I closed it and went to the next one. Master bedroom. This room held a large bed, the covers rumpled and messy, and a dresser against the wall. Clothes were strewn about, and I could see a mirror on the wall. Still totally normal-looking. That brought me to the last door. This had to be the girl's room. Slowly, I opened the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The girl was on the floor of her room, face-down in the carpet. Books were strewn all around, some ripped with pages lying forlornly beside them, and a broken mirror leaned against the wall, glass shards spread around in an arc. Rushing to the girl, I turned her over and gasped. Her half-closed eyes, which were so full of sorrow when I had first seen them, were now dark and dull, every ounce of heavy emotion gone. Breathing quickly, I picked up her left wrist, about to search for a pulse that I knew wouldn't be there, and felt something warm and wet. Turning over her arm, I saw blood running down from the cuts on her wrist, carving out letters grotesquely beautiful and still neat, even sliced into her skin to form a single word:

FREEDOM

I looked up at her face again, tears pouring from my eyes, and saw a soft smile on her lips, the first that I had ever seen on her. Clenched in her fist was a note, written in the same neat writing as the Sharpie on her wrist that was replaced now with scars.

Thank You.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was never the same after that. Dimly, I remembered calling 911, and waiting with her until the paramedics came. I felt hollow as they led me away for a checkup and later, questioning. I remember walking into school the next day as if in a dream, and seeing that nothing had changed. At all. Looking around, I saw that not even the librarian, who the girl was probably closest to, could remember who she was. So, in honor of her memory, I sit in her corner, pick up a book, and start to read.


End file.
